Fragmented Library
by NinjaMoogle
Summary: A repository for Kinkmeme de-anons and also for a few story ideas that would otherwise never see the light of day. Mostly UKUS, with UK Eng Scot Wales /US, UKChina, and Finland/Sweden so far. Everything ranging from wingkink to dubcon to genfic!
1. 500 Word Kinkmeme Drabbles

This is a deanon bit - prompt below!

**KinkMeme Drabbles - **the challenge was to take a kink (any pairing) and return with a drabble of 500 words or less. Some of these went over, but not by much. Enjoy!

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><p>.o.O.o.<p>

**Animalistic behaviors and characteristics, dominant/submissive - UKUS (R/NC-17)**

_China knows something_. America hadn't been suspicious at first, just genuinely appreciative of the jade-and-silver pendants the old Nation had given he and England. "For your anniversary, aru!", he had chirped, "The Special Relationship still continues, yes?" And America had impulsively swept him up into a hug, the necklace still clasped in hand, while England sputtered something about "_It's not a bloody anniversary!_" Looking back on it, he could almost swear that he saw some of the other Asian Nations out of the corner of his eye; Taiwan's face was pressed into her sleeve, Japan's lips were twitching, Korea was obviously trying to rein in laughter, and even Hong Kong's impassive expression had cracked as America clasped the chain with its elegantly wrought phoenix around his neck, England doing the same with his matching dragon. Even now, in hindsight, he couldn't tell what was so funny, but he kept thinking back to China's enigmatic smile, touched with just a hint of amusement... What did China know that he didn't?

He hissed as his train of thought was promptly derailed, all thoughts of China - political, socioeconomic, or personal - vanishing at the feel of a pen jabbing rather viciously into his side. He grumbled with annoyance, shoving the pen (_and_ the stack of paperwork near it, _and_ the paperweight, _and_ his coffee mug) off the side of the desk. _Really should remember to clear this thing off before I get bent over it_. Annoying object removed, he was able to focus on England as the other wedged him up against the desk. He tucked his chin to keep England from getting to his neck, growling a warning. England bared his teeth at this defiance and went below the belt instead, sliding a hand past America's waistband and wrapping it tightly around his erection. The shock made America moan and toss his head back, England pouncing on the opportunity to clamp his jaws onto the exposed skin of America's throat. The young democracy gave a low cry and arched into England's lithe, compact body.

When the grip on his neck eased, America gave a muted _chirr_ - almost of disappointment - and leaned down to nuzzle England's jawline, tugging suggestively at his trousers. The older Nation rumbled, the sound deep in his chest, and spun America around so that he faced the desk. America ground into the desk for friction as England yanked his pants down to his thighs, pressing two saliva-wet fingers into him. He squirmed against them as they spread, scissored, pulled out, almost melting with relief as he heard the faint _zzzzzzzip_ of England's dress slacks coming undone and felt callused hands spread him wide. Then England was in him, almost too large for his tight confines, and he keened, digging his nails into the desk and leaving trails of splintered wood as he was claimed, filled.

He _really_ didn't want to have to explain those to the White House staff later.

Eventually, he just Googled the meaning of the dragon and phoenix.

_HOW THE HELL DID CHINA...?_

.o.O.o.

**Beards or stubble - (UK)US (PG-PG13)**

America once thought that he had to shave fairly regularly - two times a week or so, depending on if he had a meeting or not - and he knew that Canada was only a bit worse (picked it up from France maybe?), but the first time stayed for a straight two weeks in the United Kingdom's manor house for a meeting, he had to revise his opinion when he found out that both England and Scotland woke up every morning needing a shave (or at least a trim). Wales, pretty-boy that he was (England made a snarky quip once about the third brother having fae blood), never seemed to have stubble of any kind, and would take his brothers' taunting with good-natured return jibes. Scotland he almost expected it from, but for England, America just thought it was _weird_, especially in the years when England would, for some odd reason or another, decide to sport a well-trimmed beard, just a trifle darker than the tawny shade of his hair. It always made him look older than his human twenty-two years, more distinguished.

But it was _fuzzy_.

Whenever he crawled into bed, he would be assaulted on at least one side, like it or not. One night he ended up sandwiched between Scotland and England, tucked under the redhead's chin, the blond to his back (which was_ so_ sore, like his ass, how is one person supposed to keep up with _three_?) and he was distracted all night long by the soft-scratchy fuzz both on his forehead and on the back of his neck. The next morning he woke up to feel phantom touches there, like the pet cat had crawled into bed and curled up next to him, then left before dawn. Shivering, he left to shower and then made his way down for breakfast (he cooked the bacon, eggs, and biscuits himself - England's brothers shared his lack of culinary skills) and was met at the kitchen table by the other three, each with a mug of tea in their hands. He proceeded to curse them all and raided the cabinet for some coffee (not much in the way of Starbucks here, but at least there was good NesCafe). As he sat down with the steaming mug of coffee, feeling revived by the very aroma, Wales leaned over to him, studying his face intently. He blinked slowly, mind still morning-sluggish.

"Somethin' on m' face?"

Wales' expression was utterly serious. "Stubble. I think you need a shave."

Laughter burst out from Scotland and England on the other side of the table as America, coffee aside, pounced on Wales with all the sleep-deprived intent in the world on strangling him.

.o.O.o.

**Collars (slave) - SuFin**

With how they tended to embody the very essence of a happy domestic couple, most Nations of the world figured that Sweden and Finland's sex life was just as tame. To anyone up-front enough to ask, Sweden would mumble an unintelligible reply and Finland would just smile that sweet, sweet smile of his (the nice one, not the one that made Russia tremble with very real fear). Anyone pressing the matter further would go to Denmark, the other Scandinavian having once - and only once - 'accidentally' walked in on the two. Denmark would blink, shudder, and take a long chug of whatever beer happened to be closest.

_Creeping close to the door, Denmark cracked the door open ever so slightly, trying to see how large it would have to be to get the camera through. '_Damn_ Prussia and England for doing this to me! Last time I ever do a contest of shots against either, that's for sure._' _He inched the door a bit wider... there! He flipped the side-screen open and froze, gawking at what he saw._

'_Holy. Shit._'

_Both were completely naked. Sweden was kneeling before Finland, knees spread wide_,_ the smaller Nation standing between them_._ His fingers, long and delicate, tilted Sweden's face up towards him. Denmark hastily forced back a choked sound when he saw the heavy leather collar that fit snugly around Sweden's long, pale neck_. _He bit the side of his cheek to keep quiet as Finland tipped Sweden's chin farther and farther back, until those ice-cold eyes were focused on the ceiling. A sharp _snap_ cut through the darkness as Finland attached a chain to the collar, links glinting in the faint light. He slipped a finger under the collar to check its tightness - once satisfied, Finland gently stroked his captive's cheek._

_Then he stepped back and yanked the chain, violent in its force. Sweden crashed to his hands, landing on all fours as he choked and gasped. Finland placed a foot on his shoulder, superiority writ deep in his face and stance._

_"You may be the Northern Lion, but that only makes you your master's cat." He extended his hand like a benevolent king and Sweden - proud, strong Sweden - leaned into the caress, rapture evident in every movement._

_Denmark had had more than enough. He hightailed it out of there before either of them noticed him at the door. Screw England, Prussia, and their damn drunken dares._

"Trust me," he would tell the other Nation. "You _don't _wanna know."

.o.O.o.

**Physical imperfections (scars or burns; acne pits; heaviness; outsized features such as ears or nose; jolie-laide/ugly-beautiful characters) - China, Hong Kong, England - eyebrows**

Hong Kong never did come straight out and say anything. In this he resembled Canada and India far more than America, South Africa, Australia, or many of the others England had taken care of over the years, but the Empire did know more than a little about garnering information from silent, withdrawn colonies.

"Was it the older schoolchildren again?" he asked, daubing the bruised and bleeding cut on the dark-haired boy's cheekbone with an alcohol-dipped handkerchief. He could tell by the way his boy's eyes shifted - just a little to the side - and the way his mouth set into an even straighter line that he had hit upon the truth this time. He placed a bandage upon the now-clean cut and reached to brush dark, unruly bangs out of that pale face.

"It's these, isn't it?" An almost indiscernible fluttering of lashes as his thumb gently brushed his colony's overly-thick (_English_) eyebrows told him that this was the case. England sighed and let his hand drop, slumping back into his chair. His little Asian colony, who looked so _very_ like China save for the bushy black eyebrows and stoic expression, merely sat in his own chair and waited silently for England to speak.

Propping his elbow on a knee, England rested his chin in hand, gazing at the boy. "I leave for my own lands tomorrow, do you remember? I believe I could... help... this situation before then, if you would allow."

A slight widening of eyes and a hesitant nod.

England sighed once again and stood, heading for the washroom cabinet where he kept the tweezers.

China was there the next day - England gone, his European occupier off to tour his other colonies before returning home to his own lands. China squealed in delight when he saw Hong Kong and leaned down to brush the boy's bangs out of his face, all the better to see his eyebrows, thin and delicate as a master calligrapher's ink-stroke. In a fit of glee and charity, China took him out on the town that day. Hong Kong walked the market streets with China, saw a play, kicked ball with others of his human age, browsed shops, and all without being looked at sideways or down upon for the obvious Westerner eyebrows on his face.

_But they aren't now, are they?_

Discreetly, he reached up to trace his newly slim eyebrows, careful to avoid the skin still tender from plucking. China noticed the movement and smiled happily down at the boy - who now looked as he was supposed to!

"You look so wonderful now, my son!" China exclaimed. "Much like a proper child of our great peoples, now that you don't have _those_, mm?" And though he heard Hong Kong make no response, that was to be expected; the boy was not a talker. Perhaps it was merely because of the softness of the statement that he missed it, continuing on in rapid-fire Mandarin.

"But Father's people are mine too."

When England next returned, Hong Kong's eyebrows were bushy again, much to China's dismay and all attempts to keep them otherwise.

.o.O.o.

**Wings (wingfic)**

The angel Britannia knelt over him, pinning the other man to the bed. Alfred could feel the pressure on his wrists, a silent demand, a silent warning. Other Nations might not think that England possessed the strength to keep America still, as frightfully powerful as the young superpower was.

How quickly they forget.

White tunneled Alfred's field of vision, the huge, majestic wings draping to enclose him on both sides. Soft feathers brushed his sides when they shifted, the delicate touch making him twitch. He wanted so much to reach up, to trace his hands over the long, firm primaries, to bury himself in the feel of the thick insulating down under the layers of normal feathers, but his hands were immobile, held fast to the cotton sheets.

Arthur smirked at his halfhearted struggles. The halo, dimly glowing, hung in the air like a floating coronet, casting a faint light over Arthur's face and giving his wings and shoulders a golden shadow. Alfred watched it like a moth drawn to the flame as the angel brought their faces closer, dipping his head to the side to press a line of kisses along America's jawline and down his neck, pausing to lick the hollow of his collarbone. The wings moved again, drawing closer, encasing them both in a muted cave of ivory.

America almost didn't notice when his hands were released as Arthur reached over to grab a small bottle from where it lay next to the pillow. He did notice, however, when England nudged him forward, grabbing his legs to hoist them over his shoulders, half lying on the wings, the feathers smooth beneath his tense muscles. He definitely noticed when he was opened, stretched, prepared. Alfred's toes curled at the sensation, suddenly feeling empty as the fingers withdrew. The emptiness was soon replaced, however, as America felt the older Nation force past the tense ring of muscle. His breath hitched as Arthur thrust into him, little by little, great wings flicking and twitching with every little motion, quiet 'ah, ah, ah' noises escaping Alfred's dry, parted lips.

When he was finally balls-deep inside of America's yielding body, England leaned forward to kiss his former charge. "And you thought angels couldn't be sinful, boy. Had you forgotten? _The devil is an angel too…_"

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><p>Did you like what you read? Please review! Reviews make the world go 'round.<p> 


	2. Brothers Three

**Prompt/Idea:** Continuation in the same universe as my kinkmeme fill of UK(England+Scotland+Wales)/US - going off of a commenter's "Also really hot, imagining the brothers sharing the bed and the lover but not each other, so they wait their turn". On the Isles nicknames: Cam, Cal, Tan = Cambria, Caledonia, Britannia = Wales, Scotland, England. Eire = Ireland.

An unfinished drabble, but hopefully you all enjoy it nonetheless. It's mostly sexytimes, I'll admit.

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><p>.o.O.o.<p>

Rounding the corner in the wake of Ireland's swishing skirts, America ground to a sudden halt, staring at the sight before him. There was England, as expected, but Alfred had to shake his head and blink a few times before assuring himself that yes, he was seeing triple.

"Cam, Cal, Tan! Blast it, I _knew_ I'd find you three off plotting something. Come now, the meeting's in an hour and _one_ of you - I really don't care which - is buying me lunch." Ireland tapped her foot impatiently, America still slack-jawed and mind-boggled twenty feet behind, as three disconcertingly identical gazes snapped their way.

"Hullo, Eire. Quite nice of you to join us. We were wondering if you'd be along soon," the black-haired England said. The normal, tawny-blond England's eyes flicked over her shoulder, noting America standing there behind her.

"Are you joining us as well, America? Mind, I won't be paying to feed your bottomless pit." A beetle-black brow arched. "And we're certainly not heading to McDonald's. I trust you know where the closest one is; you don't need me to lead you there."

The last England-image, the one with reddish-brown hair and a beard, chuckled. "'e looks like 'e's seen a ghost. C'mon now lad, don't you remember us?"

And the thing was, he _could_. America could remember these other two, the England-not-Englands, though he had always thought at the time that it really was the island Empire, who was merely indulging on a whim to change his hair color. It wasn't unheard of, and America could remember a few times when he himself had done just that to go undercover on a job or two for his government. Even the beard wasn't really an odd thing - England sported one often enough that America wasn't surprised by it. _Maybe just a little jealous, since all I can get, even after all this time, is only a step above peach fuzz..._

Lacking any real answer, he merely let out a strangled sound.

To his embarrassment, they all laughed, even Ireland, her alto voice rising above the men's deeper baritone chorus. The bearded one walked over and clapped a hand on America's shoulder, smiling broadly. "Och, don' despair now, boyo. What d'you say to lunch with us, then after the meeting we can all go out for a round or two, eh?"

This shook America out of his confused slump. After all, it _was_ lunchtime, and he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast; his stomach felt like it had a deathgrip on his spine, and decided then and there to voice its opinion loudly. The continental Nation winced at the audible rumble and caved. "Sure, why not. Where are you all headed then?"

.o.O.o.

(at the bar later)

It was a common misconception that England couldn't hold his alcohol. England could hold his alcohol _very_ well, and those Nations that had ever gone with him to a pub or bar were under no illusions to the contrary. Hold his alcohol he could do; it was getting him to _stop_ drinking that was the problem. Whiskey, gin, rum, or beer would all be downed and immediately replaced with another glass of that night's preference until the island Nation was left a weaving, slurring, drunken mess, assured of a massive hangover for the coming morning. America was hoping this wouldn't be the case with the rest of the Isles siblings, but was left nursing his lager in quiet dismay as England, Scotland, and Ireland all started up yet another drinking game, pulling over Prussia, Germany, Belgium, Netherlands, and - though Scotland eyed him warily - Denmark. Wales sat beside him, looking on at the proceedings in utter amusement, the only other one of their group besides the North American that had managed to stay sober.

America shot the far-older Nation a look of mute despair, and the black-haired man just shook his head with a small smile.

.o.O.o.

A short bark of laughter, not at all amused. "Why do you think I hesitate to court you, America?" The mask of England's face was strained, and he could almost tell how hard it was for the former Empire to keep it up. Green eyes, those eyes that America loved - _now learning to love on two others, the same but not_ - fixed him in an unrelenting stare. "We are the United Kingdom. Three Nations as a single Nation - I _cannot_ keep anything from them. And you must realise, America, what I share with them and they with me." The gaze that bored into him slanted downwards, settling on the teacup and its russet-coloured contents. "A relationship started with Wales, Scotland or I alone would have to grow to include the rest of Britain, for unless we share we would tear asunder. I admit much of that is my own fault - our history together has not been without its wars and periods of subjugation - but now we exist together, yet apart." Verdant tones flicked up to watch America again. "Could you handle that, America?"

The young superpower leaned back, his chair balancing on two legs alone as he gave England his best heroic grin. "You bet your britches, old-timer."

.o.O.o.

He hadn't realized.

It made sense, once he thought about it - he and Canada would share a bed in complete innocence still, despite both of them being several centuries old, and they would laugh off any insinuations of intimacy other Nations, or even humans on occasion, would throw their way. They would occasionally ask for a single hotel room during meetings and though people generally wouldn't think twice about the twins sharing a room, some of the Nations would subtly quip about _open borders_ or _close international relations_. He knew the Italian brothers suffered much the same, and though North would laugh it off much as he and his own brother did - _they should know by now that he's far too attached to Germany anyway_ - South Italy would turn a lovely shade of red and begin sputtering at the offender.

Upon meeting the Isles brothers and seeing the easy intimacy between the three - backclaps and hugs in public when normally the British were reserved about that sort of thing, an arm around the shoulder, foreheads resting together, or sitting close enough to constantly touch when in private or with trusted company - America had automatically assumed that they were all sleeping together as well.

Wrong.

At least, in the sexual sense of sleeping together. Still, it wasn't that hard to assume when one 'accidentally' - _'accidentally'__in that they were all sleeping late and I wanted to take them out to show them the awesomeness that is my San Francisco and the surrounding area_ - marched into their shared hotel room to find three bodies curled together on one large bed, hands and arms and legs practically unidentifiable as to whom they belonged from where they were visible above the covers. Well, needless to say, America had left the room in a hurry, chased by three different accents, all in a rage, and one well-aimed briefcase. Perhaps a pillow had followed, but he hadn't felt it through the hastily-closed door.

So it was a surprise when he found out that no, sharing a bed and sharing a lover did not mean sharing _each other_. They were brothers, each touch between them as loving but chaste as his and Canada's. Perhaps it came from, as England had said, "_now we exist together, yet apart_". One land, more than one Nation, much as he and Canada had been before the Europeans had come and given them dividing lines. Had the Isles been the same before Rome invaded and drew the provincial borders of Britannia, Cambria, and Caledonia? _Some more physical than others_, he remembered, thinking of Hadrian's Wall starkly black on the old, hand-drawn maps.

It would explain why they were so similar, though not _completely_ identical - Wales was more slender than his brothers, Scotland slightly more bulky in the chest, shoulders, and hips, England more densely muscled throughout. Evidence of a broken nose on Scotland, bowstring calluses on Wales' hands, faint manacle-scars on England's neck and wrists. There were subtle differences between all of them, the only immediately noticeable one being their hair colour. _Someday,_ America vowed, _someday I'll be able to tell them apart by feel alone_. Of course, activities such as they were involved in now certainly helped him toward that goal.

Eyes falling closed with pleasure behind the dark curtains of the blindfold, America arched upwards, trying to get more pressure from the hand that stroked lightly, teasingly, down the inside of his thigh, followed by a peppering of kisses in its wake. Another hand - _different person or the same?_ - juggled and fondled his testicles, a finger sometimes stretching back to caress the delicate, sensitive skin behind the scrotum, sometimes with the pad, now and again with the slight scrape of the nail. Someone's face was buried in his neck, breathing heavily and leaving pinching little nips that were then laved with a soothing, damp tongue; he could feel the man's erection pressing insistently against his hip. _Scotland, I can feel the beard, and England doesn't have one right now._ The third, whichever he was, was behind him, with America laid so that the young superpower's head was on the elder Nation's chest. That one, he could feel, had his arm slung around on the opposite side from his neck's assailant and was alternately playing with America's pebbled nipple and raking his nails up, down, across the young man's chest and belly, feathery strokes and hard furrows - _the red streaks should be faded by morning, hopefully_.

A touch to his entrance had him twitch and gasp, tensing. Soothing shushes came from the man behind him and the one at his side with no words to give their accents away, their more forceful caresses softening. America tried not to clench as a lubed finger prodded the tight muscle and slipped inside, pushing at his inner walls. A second finger was added, slick and only slightly uncomfortable, and they twisted and scissored as he canted his hips up, trying to get the angle that would make stars burst behind his eyelids. His hands clenched at the bedsheets, digging into the firm mattress. _One more finger, just one more, c'mon you bastard, don't make me wait_...

Glancing pressure on his prostate had him moaning as the fingers inside him slid out, only to return re-lubed and with a third digit, the ring finger it seemed. In they went, pushing until the broad base near the knuckles was rubbing at the tender flesh of his sphincter, and then they curled, searching for the - _yes yes yes THERE_ - and America bucked his hips, partly from reflex and partly to try to jostle those fingers into pressing _harder_. At his side, there was a low laugh from Scotland, whose hand drifted down to stroke along the ridge of America's hipbone with light, feathery touches that he knew would slowly drive him mad. The Nation behind him let out a half-chuckle half-groan at his squirming, the man's hot breath blowing atop the crown of his head, and America could feel the insistent erection pressing into his back harden even further.

A hand brushed across America's cheekbone just under where flesh met the dark fabric of the blindfold, and the Nation in front of him made a wordless questioning sound. The younger man leaned up slightly, trying to press his face into the gentle, soft touch, and the owner of the hand obliged for a moment, letting America nuzzle his palm. In his head the superpower exulted. _No rope calluses, but maybe the rough patches on the fingers are from bow- or harpstrings..._ He smiled secretively into the warm palm and kissed it. When he spoke, his voice was rough with arousal.

"Wales in front of me, Scotland beside, and England behind. Am I right?"

A laugh in his ear. "I'm too easy to guess, aren't I? Maybe Tan'll grow in a beard again soon; let's see you guess then, lad."

"Then I would be far too obvious." The voice grumbled from some place above his hips, laced with amused irritation. "We should just force you to shave sometime, or perhaps knock you out and do it ourselves." A _whump_ of flesh hitting flesh meant that Scotland had landed a good-natured punch to Wales, but the blow moved Wales and consequently torqued the fingers still lodged in America's ass. The resulting noise was completely unmanly, undignified, and something America would never admit to being able to produce. Ever.

When the keen and trembling subsided _-__ how have I not _come_ yet from all this_ - England nosed the upper curve of America's ear, a hand gently kneading his bicep as the other pressed reassuringly at his waist. "Still with us, luv?"

America snarled incoherently, canting his hips upward as Wales tapped his thumb erratically on the velvety skin behind his balls, the fingers within him expanding and contracting with a measured pulse. "God_damn_ it, I guessed already, and I guessed right, so one of you better hurry up and get _in_ me already, and I don't give a flying fuck if you have to play rock-paper-scissors for it as long as you do it fa-_AAAASTohdearGodyesyesyesmove..."_

Wales had quickly slipped his hand away and rolled out over America's leg, replaced lightning-quick by Scotland who plunged in without hesitation, thrusting deep and quick. _Thank God for all the prep_. America squeezed his knees tight around trim hips, his coordination not good enough at the moment to lock his ankles together behind the elder Nation's back while said Nation pounded America into the unyielding mass of England behind him. Scotland grabbed his thighs, helping to hold him steady as England's knees rose, bracketing America between steel-corded legs as the young Nation scrabbled at them and at the sheets, trying to thrust back against Scotland as the older man stepped up his rhythm.

America could feel the wave of his climax building, a hot, bright point that sparked and burned, expanding like a dying sun - _the foreplay was too much, I can't I can't..._ His spine arched, head pressing back against England's chest as he rode out his completion, Scotland still moving in him as his inner walls clenched and convulsed, tightening around the intruder until he too came, moaning as he tensed, spilling into America before collapsing on him, forcing a _whuff_ of air from England. Bleary-eyed and blinking away the blue-white specks that swam through his vision, America reached back, untying the blindfold before turning his head and reaching out to Wales who was kneeling on the sheets beside the pile of bodies, offering assistance. The dark-haired Nation let out a low, throbbing laugh and reached his own hand forward to brush against America's, fingers cum-sticky from where he had brought himself off while watching. _Oh, that's good, already taken care of..._

England's voice rumbled from near the headboard. "As lovely as this all is, I must entreat that you both _get off of me_. You're damn heavy together and I am positively squashed. Mind moving, would you? - there's a good chap." And Scotland rose with a lazy, contented grin, slipping his soft length carefully out of America as he rocked back on his heels, offering a hand to pull the superpower to a sitting position. Stickiness clung to the skin of America's back as he sat up; the pressure, movement, and friction of the two above him had apparently been enough to bring England to climax at some point.

Wales, closest to the edge of the bed, swung his feet off and padded over to the bathroom, returning after a moment of cleaning himself to hand a wet rag to America. The younger Nation accepted it gratefully and leaned forward to wipe Scotland down. As he finished, England scooted around to his side, leaning down to lick away the splotches of white staining America's belly, tongue laving the skin gently. America blushed but didn't look away. He may have been steadily falling more and more in love with the other two Isles brothers, but England would always be his first love, and the sight of him bent over America, lapping at the pale sticky strands, was practically enough to make America's spent penis twitch in longing. Instead he reached over with the rag to clean England, then relinquished it to allow himself to be administered to.

None of them bothered with pyjamas that night, but new, clean sheets were scrounged, and the four collapsed onto the massive bed together in the warm, haphazard pile of bodies to which they had all had become fondly accustomed. Legs and arms splayed everywhere, and there was a lot of shifting before everyone managed to get comfortable.

America wouldn't trade it for the world.

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><p>Like what you read? Please review! Reviews are much appreciated!<p> 


	3. Lucifer

**Idea/Prompt:** UKUS. Established relationship, but no sex yet. Alfred's tried to initiate a few times, but Arthur's always come up with an excuse not to, or just flat-out refused. Why? Because whenever he gets to a certain point of arousal, he turns into Britannia Angel. An immensely strong, imperially-possessive Fallen Angel. Alfred has no idea, but when he _does_ find out, still wants to try anyway. Cue the surround-sound "_Oh, FUCK..._"

Also an unfinished story, but is likely to never be continued. It's up for adoption if anyone would like to write more.

* * *

><p>.o.O.o.<p>

_Well, you look just like an angel,_

_You sound so bright and true._

_You seem so sweet coming down my street_

_But the devil is an angel too._

_The devil is an angel too._

_- Julie Miller, 'The Devil is an Angel'_

.o.O.o._  
><em>

_"...stretching off to infinity, were the hosts of Heaven and Hell, wingtip to wingtip. If you looked really closely, and had been specially trained, you could tell the difference." – Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, Good Omens_

.o.O.o._  
><em>

Alfred paused when Arthur stiffened in his arms, muscles tensing. The hands that had been roaming down his back clenched, fingers curving into harsh claws. He pulled back, trying to look at Arthur's face, bowed head and curtain of fringe hiding his expression. "Arthur… Arthur, are you all righ…?"

"Hands off."

Sky-eyes blinked in confusion. "Wha…"

"Take your hands off of me. _Now_." His voice was a low, strained growl, each word sharply enunciated.

Alfred's hands jerked and started to draw away from Arthur's body when the one on his shoulder blade felt something. It was like a – a bump, or a ridge, twitching and moving under the skin. His other hand went up, brushing the other side to find a matching ridge, moving independently of the other, bulging up over muscle and bone. And they were both growing larger.

It was a _creepy_ feeling.

He opened his mouth, about to ask what the hell was going on, when he noticed the distortion in the space above Arthur's head, the air waving and bending as if heated, coalescing into a ring that glowed faintly golden-white.

It was that, the halo, slowly growing in brightness, that clued Alfred in – _he warned you this would happen_ – and he whisked his hands away from Arthur's back just as the strange shifting ridges broke the skin. Vaguely, as if through a fog, one corner of his mind wondered at the lack of blood that one figures would accompany an extra set of limbs bursting violently from someone's body. It was with that same dim wonderment that he stared, standing there still, silent, mouth gaping open in slack-jawed – _surprise doubt amazement confusion fear awe_ _**want**_ – at the sight of the angelic wings that extended behind Arthur.

He had imagined, when Arthur said _angel_, that England would have, well… little wings. Cute things that were mostly down and soft, rounded feathers, and would flutter adorably and fluff up whenever Arthur felt indignant or miffed. The halo too! He had thought it would be… sparklier, kind of like tinsel, or the kind you got with small children's Halloween costumes. And maybe a toga. Yeah. It had, all in all, been a pretty great mental image, and Alfred was rather proud of it.

What he saw instead, here and now with England before him, doubled over and breathing heavily, was nothing of the sort. The halo's glow had steadied and was burning a thin, radiant circle in the air; the light it was emitting cast a golden sheen across the man's head and shoulders. And his wings – _those wings!_ – with the primaries trailing upon the floor, the wrist joint arched far above his head, each one alone - _folded, not even extended -_ was _easily_ longer than he was tall, easily longer than _America_ was tall.

"England?" Alfred laid a hand on Arthur's cheek as the older Nation straightened. "Arthur? Is everything okay?"

He was completely unprepared for the way Arthur's hands shot up, grabbing his shoulders and pinning him forcefully to the wall, wings rising on both sides to close off his vision, everything becoming focused on England, only England, as the angel-ified Nation drew in close, their slight difference in height negligible. Alfred stared straight at the other's face, trying to read the emotion there. The unearthly glow of the halo reflected in England's eyes, enhancing the normally unnoticeable gold flecks spattered throughout the deep jade, and Alfred got the niggling feeling that maybe, just maybe, he had gotten in over his head.

The feeling was confirmed when he tried to push back against Arthur, but found that he was quite firmly held in place. America was known among the Nations for his ridiculous strength – he could bend steel bars in his bare hands, uproot respectably-sized trees, and drag a truck around with ease. Being unable to budge Arthur meant that the angel's strength was greater than that. Alfred struggled again, harder, but to no avail. With dismay, Alfred realized that Arthur, like this, could probably use the Epcot globe as a soccer ball if he really wanted to.

Perhaps it was the flash of fear at America's realization that he was physically overpowered, but the angel's - _Arthur's_ - expression softened somewhat from its granite visage, one wing drifting in closer until it was draped across Alfred's shoulder, a heavy, warm weight. A few feathers brushed against his face and he tilted his head a little automatically, trying to get that feeling back. The motion brought a glint to Arthur's eyes, and the elder Nation leaned forward, breath ghosting along the curve of America's jaw as he brought his wing closer, letting the other man nuzzle into the soft feathers. His hand, large and calloused, rose to cup America's face, and when he spoke, Alfred could hear the weight of years behind the baritone voice like the wind and rain and weathered stone of his lands.

"_Submit to me._"

"No way in _Hell._" The request was so sudden America didn't even pause to think, simply answering out of instinct, not realizing the seriousness in the other's tone before it was too late.

England's eyes narrowed, and before the other could react he took the hand that laid softly on the side of Alfred's head, and using it grabbed his face and slammed his head backwards into the wall.

"Did you not _hear_ me? _SUBMIT_, boy!" Teeth were bared in a rigid snarl, no lightness, no passion in that face - only the will to dominate, to force his superiority on the larger man, the younger Nation.

But America hadn't become the first world 'superpower' by giving in at the first sign of trouble, so he shook his head - trying to chase away the black spots dotting the edge of his sight - and looked right back at England in the eye: challenging, sure of himself, ignoring the cold feeling gnawing at his gut.

No, he wasn't fearless, but he had learned to tame his fears, and rein them like he would with a wild horse. "I don't know what's going on in your head, Britannia Angel or England - whoever you may be - but I _won't. _I didn't back then, and I surely won't _now_."

A sneer rose on the angelic Nation's face. "You think that I am different, that I am... somehow _changed_ from the England you know, the England you profess to _love_?" A laugh, derisive and mocking.

"_My_ England never ordered me to submit to him. He knows damn well I wouldn't, since I fought a fucking _war _because of that!" America cut the other, frowning, his sky blue eyes narrowing, the muscles of his neck and shoulder bulging out in his effort of freeing himself from the angel's hold, but no avail.

"I am still England! The same as ever - the one that conquered the seas, the one that raised you, the one that fought in the trenches, the one that outlasted Germany." The sneer changed, a smirk now, and though it suited his face better it was not quite an improvement. "The one that you asked on a date to the movies last weekend, the same one that knit you a scarf for your birthday - 50 little stars stitched into it. I am the same England as I ever was."

That list had America uneasy, for it held no emotion. How could that person who looked just like England claim to be his beloved, where there was no spark of feelings - nothing - neither in his voice or his eyes, as he talked of those things, or his past, of _their _past?

Looking in the other's eyes, America's gaze hardened. "You may look like him, but you're not _my _England," he spat, insisting on the possessive article, for those eyes were not his former caretaker's. They surely were green, but they were dull, opaque, plain and cold as dead gems. They weren't. They _couldn't_ be. _Please, don't let them be._

"_Your_ England? As if I ever belonged to _you_! Impudent brat!" His lips curled back from his teeth as he laughed. "But you are _my_ America, make no mistake." The laugh shifted to a chuckle as he released his grip on America's forehead and hair, caressing his face in a mockery of a loving touch. "Dear sweet Alfred, this is how I have _always_ been. I just have to hide it from all of you. Now, you have released those inhibitions, and I may take what is rightfully mine again. Such a good boy." He nuzzled into America's neck, wings flexing, stretching out, though not to full length - they'd hit the opposite walls if he tried.

.o.O.o.

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><p>Again, this is up for adoption - if you'd like it, all I ask is credit for the idea, if you please, and perhaps a link to your own version. Oh, and again, please review!<p> 


	4. Loss of Sensation

**Idea/Prompt:** Similar to a certain kinkmeme prompt, but not entirely. In the aftermath of losing the bulk of his Empire, England is going slowly insane. If he doesn't find an anchor - mentally/physically/spiritually/etc. - he's eventually going to snap and go on a violent rampage that will either end with his death or the world under his rule. This time (unlike the original prompt), he gets that anchor. UKUS. Also, soulbonding. Don't judge, don't judge! *ducks thrown tomatoes*

This was originally co-written with a good friend of mine - myself as England and her as America - who I have sadly but necessarily fallen out of touch with, so it is unlikely that this will ever be completed, but it would be a shame not to post it for your enjoyment. The first few bits with the "Scene #" are all proverbially what would have been written in, but, alas, were not, so feel free to imagine the details there. "Scene 5" is where the properly-written stuff starts.

* * *

><p>.o.O.o.<p>

Scene 1:

It's the 1950's and England's just lost a bunch of colonies in the aftermath of WWII, and the edge is in sight - he can feel his sanity slipping away, but is still holding it together. America has no idea, between being his usual oblivious self and England being very good at hiding this, but one night he has the 'family' over - England, France, Canada, maybe a few others? Japan is currently living there as well. Could be for a holiday like Thanksgiving or something, or to watch the Olympics maybe?

England gets himself deliberately and thoroughly drunk, partly from depression at the knowledge of what's happening to him, partly because he's sure America doesn't/can't return his feelings.

.o.O.o.

England drummed his fingers on the countertop, impatient, impatient. _Da-dah-dum, da-dah-dum, da-dah-dum._ No, no, that is not proper.

_Poise. Control._

Every little bit counted, he supposed, forcing his restless fingers to still, instead letting them caress the perspiring glass of his drink. _Suffering Bastard. How appropriate._ He downed the rest of his glass, the extra bitters he slipped in stinging his tongue. Cup clanking back onto the wood, England slipped out of his chair to peruse the contents of America's rather well-stocked bar. _Whiskey this time, I think..._ He knew by the way he could still walk in a straight line, by how the occasional fairy that darted through his vision was only slightly blurry, that he wasn't even near being drunk yet. Swiping a 16-year off of the shelf, he lined up his glass and poured. Downed the glass. Blinked. _Still not fuzzy enough_. He poured another and sat down at the bar, open bottle beside him, staring into the golden sea that stretched from horizon to curved glass horizon.

.o.O.o.

Scene 2:

Consequently, when France and Canada head home, America ends up taking England home and pouring him into bed; he's unaware of any romantic feelings but wants to take care of England and enjoys being able to do something for him.

Normally, the nations are very careful about not touching another's bare skin uninvited - it's extremely rude, the sort of thing that equates to wartime espionage or a serious diplomatic offense, while something as simple as holding hands is a big step in a relationship, on par with, say, serious making out with hands under clothes or shirtless or something, or for comfort in a committed alliance-friendship, like heterosexual life partners kind of thing. Could totally throw in America being jealous of England holding hands with Portugal, or America liking to hold hands with Canada. French kissing is nearly as intimate as sex for humans.

However, America decides he should at least get England out of his boots and jacket, and in the process accidentally brushes against England's bare skin - and feels *blankness*. Not like a human, though, where a nation wouldn't feel much from an individual who wasn't one of their citizens (or had lived in their country for some time), he just feels - emptiness.

America has no clue what's wrong of course, since he's never been through the loss of a major colony or large territory, and no one talks about that sort of thing.

He'd never thought of England as fragile before. England was as old and as strong as the sea-swept stone of his lands, had lived much longer than America and endured far more. The terrifying blankness that he'd felt at England's touch had held none of that, though, only a hungry void. Even a human corpse would have held echoes of the life they'd lived, the nation they'd belonged to.

So he panics, and instead of going home, he stays, camping out in England's living room or something because he's kind of quietly terrified that England's dying. America hasn't actually thought about how he feels about England until now. He knows England is _important_ to him, but suddenly he's thinking about what a world without England would mean for him, and kind of realizes he's in love, that he's _been_ in love.

.o.O.o.

Scene 3:

Morning comes, and America demands explanation.

England is of course very evasive about what's wrong even while dropping just enough hints, and manages to get America out the door and on his way home, England knowing where things are headed, and sort of mentally saying goodbye to America even as he's shoving him out of the house, already knowing how he's going to have to force America to kill him before he goes completely batshit crazy and tries to take over the world, or regain his territories through war.

.o.O.o.

Scene 4:

It takes a while for America to put the pieces together, and he goes and demands answers from France, and finds out that the best thing for England is basically sex. France knows that sex works because he (and others) have had to deal with lesser losses, and thus lesser nations could act as an anchor. France explains to him that it specifically has to be sex with England topping and the other Nation completely open to him, letting England feel something beyond himself, to pull him out of the sense of deadness that's slowly encroaching on him, and furthermore that trying it with a nation as badly-off as England is at the moment is _extremely_ dangerous, not that this dissuades America in any way, for which France is secretly grateful.

.o.O.o.

Scene 5: America goes to see England, prepared to do whatever's necessary.

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><p>He held out one of the ungloved hands that had held England's attention fixated since he showed up.<p>

"Get out, America. You have no clue what you're asking." England's hand was half-raised to strike, and America caught it by the wrist, slipping his bared fingers in between the glove and cuff of the coat. The unsettling emptiness that had haunted his nightmares for the past weeks was still there, stronger than ever, but he held on anyway. If he was going to go through with this, he couldn't flinch back from the blankness that was haunting England.

England started at the feel of America's long, uncovered fingers around his wrist, the echoes of nationhood that passed between them from the skin-on-skin contact. He stoically ignored it all, from the warmth of the Californian sun to the gentle sway of Lake Erie's waters against their banks. _Much as I want to take it, to take _you_, here and now and never let you go..._

"Let go." His voice was low, dangerous and warning, his teeth grinding with frustration at the sheer _impudence_ of this New World upstart. _Let go before I can't._

"England." America's voice dropped to meet his, not warning but pleading. "I know what's happening. I won't lose you like this. Whatever you need, let me give it to you." He used the wrist he still held to turn England around so that they were out of the doorway, let the door swing closed behind him and shut out the small noises of human life. He could see the fury and conflict in England's expression, letting the liveliness of those emotions reassure him in the face of the deathly cold blankness that seemed to seep from the sliver of bared skin he'd caught hold of.

"You have no _idea_ what I need, America. Hell, even I don't know what I need." The anger slowly subsided from his expression. "No Empire has ever escaped the loss of themselves that comes with the loss of..." He brought his free hand up to cover his face, hiding whatever expression took the place of his fury, thinking of Rome and Germania, of those pieces of France and Denmark and Russia and all the others that were never the same again. "There is no help for me. Too much of what I am... _was_... was given to them. Even if my land and people survive, _I_ am lost. Give it up. Go _home_, America."

"No. No, I won't give up. I won't give up, and I won't lose you." He pulled, and it was unexpected enough that England stumbled forward a step before catching himself. It was just enough that a half-step forward brought America within a hair's breadth of touching him, and then he was wrapping his arms around England, his strength more than enough to hold fast to the Nation that struggled against his embrace despite the arm now pinned behind his back. Clothes insulated them, kept them separate, but the insinuation of what was to come was enough to send shivers through him. "Have you ever known me to give up?"

England growled and continued trying to wrest himself free of America's grasp. "No, of _course_ not, how could I possibly have thought otherwise? Fine. Don't give up then! Just know that if you do continue, you doom yourself to an impossible task." He wrenched an arm free and dug a thumb into the fleshy bit in the joint of America's shoulder, trying to get him to release his grip. "Now let. Me._ Go._"

"Impossible's my specialty, you know. I'm going to have a man on the moon any day now." He ignored the sharp pain in his shoulder in favor of reaching up under England's jacket and yanking his shirt out of his pants, letting him slide a hand up to span the small of England's back, stoically ignoring the hatchwork of scar tissue crisscrossing under his palm. The contact was like sticking his hand in ice water, and it took all his determination not to pull away from the sense of death, like echoes of famine or plague.

The sensations flooded in, growing from the small trickle that was so easy to ignore into a river - sights and sounds and _life_, and this time England could not keep from reacting. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly and he leaned back a centimetre or so into that warm, broad palm low on his spine. The hand he had on the other Nation's shoulder twitched, trembled, clutching for a bare second like it was a lifeline before his resolve and features hardened and he shoved America full in the chest, trying to push him off.

The brief flash of surrender he felt from England was enough to send a jolt of triumph through America at the realization that this might just work, even if he could feel the cold seeping into his bones where they touched. He almost relaxed, nearly losing his grip when England suddenly tried to push him away. Obviously it was going to take something more to convince England, and, well, if bare hands weren't enough to get his point across, maybe he'd have to go straight for taking off his clothes. It was kind of terrifying, if he was honest, but if England wasn't going to listen, well. He always _had_ been one for dramatic gestures. He tightened his grip on England and walked the smaller Nation backwards until they hit the door, shoving one leg between England's and using his lower body to pin him there while he undressed. The startle of surprise that the sound of his belt hitting the floor provoked was at least gratifying, and green eyes only grew wider as he shrugged off his jacket and started working on the buttons of his shirt.

"Wh-what the bloody hell do you think you're _doing_?" He could only stare in shock as America's beloved leather jacket hit the floor, the shirt that was beneath it looking to join it rather quickly. He couldn't help himself; his breath sped up in anticipation and utter _want_ as more and more bare skin was revealed with each button that came undone. Dazed, he began to reach tentatively for the expanse of tanned flesh that grew more visible with each passing second, almost overcome with the sheer need to _possess_, to make it _part of me, mine always and forever_ - and immediately wrenched his questing hand back.

_This is why he left you in the first place._

America could see the hunger warring with fear in England's eyes, the hands that reached out and drew back before they touched, as he pulled his shirt off, leaving himself bared to the waist. He reached out to once again catch hold of England's wrist, holding fast even as England tried to yank his hand free. Bringing the hand up to his face, he took the tip of the middle finger in his teeth and gently teased off one leather glove. Unable to resist the temptation with England's hand before him, laid bare for him to see for the first time since he was a colony, he licked a stripe of wetness up from the ball of his thumb, twining his tongue teasingly around sturdy fingers, tasting the hard calluses polished smooth by the fine leather. He sucked briefly at England's first two fingers, focusing on the taste and texture in defiance of the haunting emptiness, before reluctantly bringing their intertwined hands down to his chest, pressing England's bared palm to his heart.

England's mind almost whited out at the feel of America's tongue on his palm, the way his fingers were drawn slowly, cautiously into that warm, wet cavern - _the intense humidity of summer along the lower eastern seaboard_ - the way America's tongue swirled around the digits, swept between them, pressed them to the roof of his mouth. He stifled a groan as America pulled his hand away, fingers regretting the loss until he felt his his hand splayed on America's chest, fingers spread wide, jolting as he recognised the thumping of a steady heartbeat beneath the thickly calloused skin of his palm. His eyes flickered up to meet those of his former colony, that endless sea-sky blue, realizing suddenly what America must be intending to do. "No. No, you cannot, you _must_ not..."

"Yes, I will. I'm strong enough for this, England. No one in the world is stronger right now. You aren't going to drag me down with you, and I'm not going to let you go down without a fight." With that, he wrapped a hand around the back of England's head and mashed their lips together in a kiss, trapping England's hand between them. The coldness that had him so frightened lingered even here, in England's lips and on his breath, but the faintest scent of the sea caught in his throat as he opened his mouth to the kiss, a hint of what he had dreamed England would taste like. He pursued those traces of England with his tongue, teasing apart chapped lips to delve for hints of the Nation he knew, as England's palm drew a line of cold down his chest.

That kiss broke something in England - something important, something absolutely necessary. What could... ah, that was it...

...control.

With no hesitation, no reserve, he leaned forward into the kiss, tilting his head and moulding his lips against America's, sucking and twining and nipping, his hand on America's chest dragging downward, feeling the muscles shift under the skin - _feeling the wind through the Kansas wheat fields, the slowly inching movement of the San Andreas fault_ - and he found, dipping lower, the scar from Pearl Harbor, much like a sword scar, the exit wound in front. _He really stabbed you from behind, didn't he_? He traced, feather-light, over the raised, pale tissue with the pad of his thumb, feeling skin-sea-basalt and musical language beneath his touch. His other hand curled, trying to touch America's hand where it still held fast his wrist, never mind that he was still gloved.

Kissing England - and more than that, England kissing him back - was good, so very good, something he'd wanted for so very long, but there was a barrenness to it. Even with England here, real and solid to the touch and holding on tight, he still seemed so far away, like they were shouting across a cold void when what he wanted was _all_ of England. There was so much between them, years and experience and all the colonies England had held and lost that weren't _America_. Also clothes. England definitely had too many clothes still on, and that at least was one thing America could do something about. Now that the Briton wasn't fighting back, it was easy enough to slip a hand up to cup his cheek briefly before sliding down to start unbuttoning his shirt. His other hand still held one of England's wrists pinned above his head, and he loosened his grip to let their hands slide together, pulling off the remaining glove and weaving their fingers together, cold tangling with warm.

England's conscience had started to desert him when his self-control shattered, when he began responding to America's fervent kiss, and had by this time degraded to the point where he simply didn't _care_. He could feel the black abyss at his core reaching out to take this bright, lively Nation; use it to kill his dearth of self. His hand freely roamed the expanse of America's torso now that it wasn't crushed against him, making sure to note every little scar, his smooth chest, the dimple near his hipbone. It didn't even register when his thoughts began slipping once again, this time to be encouraged, indulged.

_Unclaimed, once claimed, you shall be _mine_ again. And this time, I will never let you go._

He pulled his mouth from America's, letting his breath flow over a strong, defined jawline before setting lips and tongue to the length of bared golden neck. He relished the taste of America's skin, trailed a path down to his collarbone to see if it would taste any different, nipped along his clavicle and enjoyed the little shivers that it sent through America. He pondered for a moment, briefly, the curving muscle between neck and shoulder. Then he leaned forward and bit it, teeth sinking down hard, marking America indelibly, _this is England's, England's alone, and woe to you if you touch what is _mine.

America's fingers stumbled on their way down the buttons of England's shirt, tripping over the iciness of questing touches and nips until England sank his teeth into his shoulder and he lost all thought, hands fisting in the fine-spun cotton and yanking, sending buttons scattering across the floor. The rags of the shirt fluttered to the ground like a flag of surrender as he moaned and arched into the sharply possessive grasp of England's teeth. He was on his knees when the older Nation finally released him, following him down to lick paths of winter-sea cold across the burn of the bite mark, already darkening to a nasty black-and-violet bruise, and the seeping chill of England's hands on his shoulders was enough to let his thoughts find some purchase in his mind. Most of those thoughts consisted of the many, many fantasies he'd had of England over the years, but one of those thoughts was that of those many fantasies involving England not one included them having sex on England's rather muddy front door rug. The nice Chinese silk rug in the library yes, but on the whole the bed seemed a better option for their first time. Together, that is. So that just left the question of getting to the bed, and England didn't look to be very cooperative.

England, for his part, really didn't consider much the concepts of "bed" and "comfortable" at that point. His attention was focused entirely on America, on getting the young democracy out of his clothes and _taking_ him, everything that was America - land, culture, and people - _body, mind, and soul_ - and it didn't matter to him whether it was right there on the floor or standing, pressed to the adjoining wall. All that mattered was the entity of life and love and freedom that was laid out before him, subdued. He pushed down on one shoulder, the other hand going straight for America's fly.

America had a fairly good idea that he wouldn't want to be walking anywhere once they were done, and spending the night on England's kitchen floor wasn't exactly his idea of fun, so he moved quickly to head off the hand headed for his zipper, pushing England's other hand back off his shoulder and using his kneeling position to get his shoulder in England's stomach and hoist him up in a fireman's carry. England's sputtering fury at the cavalier treatment was more than a little amusing, although the former empire was strong enough that the fist slamming against his bare back hurt quite a bit. He headed straight for where he knew England's bedroom was, even if he'd seldom been inside it, shoving the door open with his hip and tumbling England across the antique quilts.

A rumbling growl escaped England's throat as he sat up from where he had been unceremoniously tossed, rising to glare at America, hair mussed and eyes narrowed. He was mildly confused when America walked over to the bed, _why does he come when before he ran? Broke from me? He does not _want_ me, _cannot_ want me. It is not possible._ And then the confusion was submerged, lost in the rising tide of _Nation near. Unconquered Nation. Take it, take it, take what is rightfully yours, watch it fall under your power, quake beneath your touch._ And he did, reaching across the bed to tangle his hand in America's hair, dragging the other man towards him to crash their lips together once again, needy for the addicting honey that was _The United States of America_, and this time he tasted the southwest, plains and mesas and deserts, vice and gamblers and scientists and peoples older than America himself. He leaned in hard, their teeth clacking together, his tongue delving forward and assaulting America's own, and he went to work at America's pants where he had left off before.

America followed England's hand down willingly, leaning into the kiss and searching for the whisper of England he'd tasted before, beyond the chill that crept across lips and tongue. He'd just caught a taste of rose gardens frosted with snow when he felt a tug at his jeans and, pulling England's hand free from his hair, he stepped back to take them off, snagging the travel-sized bottle of lube he'd made sure to pocket, toeing off his sneakers and sliding his socks off with his pants. His nerves came back at the feel of being left in just his boxers; he was hardly a virgin, but it wasn't all that often that he'd been naked in front of another Nation, and never one that devoured him with a look the way England did. That hunger was enough to remind him why they were here, and he shucked his underwear before he could get even more nervous, reaching a hand out for England.

England remembered more than a few assignations that had involved little more than unzipped pants, only the relevant anatomy bared. Never, never had a lover _willingly_ stripped himself bare for the taking. And so it was with great surprise that he watched America shed his clothes in front of him, just like that. He was not forced, not coerced, not intimidated, anything. He just... oh, what did it _matter_? He launched himself at America, grabbing him and turning, slamming the boy down onto the mattress with a feral gleam in his eyes. Pinning him down with an arm on the chest, he wedged America's legs open, easily parting those long thighs and settling himself in between them, fumbling at his trousers, managing to pull them down and off, kicking them to the side and his pants with them. He brought two fingers to his mouth, wetting them, his thoughts for ease and speed rather than any sort of comfort, and lifted America's hips to push in both fingers at the same time.

Pinned to the mattress beneath England, America arched up, trying to reach enough of England to find that whisper of damp autumn winds across rolling green hills that had teased at his skin for a moment when they were pressed chest-to-chest as England tackled him to the bed. The feel of bitterly cold fingers at his entrance was enough to distract him, and he wrapped his legs tightly around England and rolled them both over until he could easily snag England's wrists again and pin him beneath the full weight of his body, shoulders to hips to thighs. The shock of cold emptiness from the contact drove the breath from him, leaving his voice ragged as he murmured gently to the frantically thrashing nation beneath him. "Easy, babe, easy, I'm not going anywhere, and if you want more than one round any time in the next few days, we need to take it a little slower." The coldness of England's touch was slowly starting to feel less a deathly void, and more the natural cold of winter as the other Nation struggled below.

The words failed to have any impact. It had not occurred to England that there would be more than one time. Ever. _Especially_ in the next few days. He figured that it would just be here, now, fuck, and then be on their separate ways, and America would probably avoid him for at least a decade. Probably more, considering the way instinct was dominating his actions, how sense and sanity were laid by the wayside in favor of the overwhelming urge of _conquer-possess-occupy-maintain-protect-rule_ searing through him, making him abandon all rational thought. He struggled beneath America, furious at being overthrown, but at the same time reveling in the contact, all of that bare skin, _coast to coast, yours and mine_. Even so, he bucked and struggled, snarling, trying to reclaim his position on top, but America was just too strong. Eventually, he slumped back into the mattress, breathing hard, with America still sprawled on top of him, an immovable force holding him down, and turned a baleful eye on his former colony.

Holding England down was like trying to hold a blizzard, but cold fury finally subsided to quiescence, soft and frigid as snow drifts, as England lay still beneath him. America slowly released limp wrists, bringing his hands up to frame that cherished face with the beryl-green eyes that glared at him with such frustration and angled their mouths together for a kiss. Hands tangled roughly in his hair, tugging, and he opened his mouth to England's hungry invasion, caressing and sucking on the tongue that thrust sharply into his mouth. This time he could taste more, Earl Grey tea and icicle-covered pines, and always the sharp saltiness of the sea. Gasping for breath, he finally pulled away to search out other flavors of England, licking and kissing his way down England's neck to find the taste of pipe smoke caught in the hollow of his throat, then chasing wisps of acidic London fog down to circle his tongue over England's heart. He could feel England's every gasping breath in the rise and fall of his chest as he traced his open mouth across it.

The island Nation tilted his head down to bury his nose in America's hair, breathing in the scent of fallen leaves in New England deciduous forests. His hands were still threaded in the long blond strands, but one slipped down over the back of America's bowed neck, finding the first ridge of his spine and following them down, like tracing the Rocky Mountains on a map. That hand swept back up, between the shoulder blades, a little voice shoved to the back of his mind remembering _northern American Rockies - Oregon Territory, I gave you this, didn't I_? He tensed, biting back a moan as America swirled his tongue, the hot, moist breaths ruffling through the fine hair on his chest, and his fingers dug in, nails too short to draw blood. The yank of his hand in America's hair must have been painful, though, for he heard a slight whimper - _wolf pups in Yellowstone, Midwest fox kits_ - and grinned, a vicious little thing that was mostly teeth, though there was no way America could see that. _Now, now, one mustn't damage their prize._ So he loosened the offending grip and laid his hand on America's head in a deceptively gentle caress, petting softly.

America closed his eyes in pleasure at the soft touches, blindly seeking a path down England's body with lips and tongue and faint scrapes of teeth, tasting moorland heather and finding the rich scent of peat woven through the bitter chill that permeated England. Sliding down, he mouthed at the ridge of England's hip bone, tracing it inwards, licking at the crease between hip and thigh. The elder nation's hands tightened again in his hair at the provocation, striving to pull him just a few inches closer to his arousal. England's full, blood-darkened erection couldn't match the length of America's own, but easily made up for it in thickness. America licked the corners of his lips, knowing the stretch would hurt, but be let himself be guided easily enough, breathing hotly across the length of the shaft before leaning down to take the tip in his mouth.

There was a feeling of great satisfaction as England forcefully pulled America's head down to engulf his erection, driving him further and further down until those kiss-swollen lips touched the base, America's nose buried in dark, wiry curls. The boy was obviously trying hard to suppress his gag reflex and succeeding quite well, giving only a slight spasming choke as he adjusted, mouth and throat stretching to accommodate the formidable girth. England discovered a rather perverse pleasure then when he realized that America had probably never taken anyone this deep before. After giving him a second to adjust, he gave a sharp tug at the sun-bright hair caught in his fingers.

America took the not-so-subtle hint, drawing out halfway, slowly, the barest scrape of his teeth sending England into shivers of pleasure, before sliding back down all the way. He quickly improved, finding out how much suction, how much teeth, how much tongue England liked, finding what would have the island moaning and twitching and what would earn him a growl and a sharp, painful tug of his hair. There was a musky scent to England, a deeply masculine odor tinted with a faint smoky, acrid hint that reminded him of an open forge, and he focused on that as he swirled his tongue, playing over the foreskin with his teeth before diving back down, sliding England deep into his throat, tonguing the underside as he drew out again.

England, for his part, was finding it increasingly difficult to keep stilling his hips from thrusting into the other Nation's mouth. When America finally pulled back, catching the head and giving it a firm squeeze with his lips, his tongue flicking the slit to catch a taste of the leaking precum, England could barely stop himself from taking America _right then and there_. He settled for a breathless growl and leaned down, pulling America up to brush his teeth across the violently bruised bite mark he had left earlier.

_Now. I claim you._

The feel of England's teeth and the look in his eyes was enough to send America scrabbling for the small bottle of lube he'd dropped on the bed sometime earlier. His hand finally landed on it where it had gotten shoved up under a pillow, grasping the bottle and drawing it out. Kneeling over England, he coated the fingers of one hand with the lube and braced himself on the other hand, reaching back to press one finger inside himself. It had been long enough since he'd done this that it took a moment to remember how to relax himself, and then he was easing another finger in, moaning and rocking back into the feel of being stretched, making a show of himself for England's hungry eyes. Soon he was pulling his fingers out to add more lube before pressing in again with two, quickly joined by a third. He shuddered, fucking himself with his own fingers - not enough, not when he wanted more, _now_, wanted England buried inside of him. As soon as the burn of being stretched out began to ease, he slipped his fingers out and poured the last of the lube into his hand to slick up England, leaning down for a kiss. "You can let go," he murmured against England's lips. "Don't hold back." _This is what's best for you, even if you don't love me like I love you._

Even if he wasn't fully intending to knock America onto his back and fuck him senseless, to bury himself in the United States, then the sight of America arched over him, preparing himself, would have revoked all hesitation were England in his normal state of mind. Even so, he most certainly was _not_, and he had waited long enough. Over a thousand years of being imperial, he had given too much of himself to those he had lost, and here was a Nation - _dear, precious Columbia_ - to fill that void, that emptiness that his dissolution had carved into him, and he would wait no longer.

With a twist of his hips and a hand on America's arm, he flipped them both over, America's legs snug about his sides as they landed with a soft _fwump_. "You are _mine_," he rumbled, guiding himself to America's entrance and thrusting in hard, heedless of the pained yelp from the Nation below as he sank in to the hilt, America's inner walls clenching around his thick length. "Only mine," he breathed, as he pulled out almost all the way and thrust in again, the assault on his senses beginning as he felt America begin to open to him entirely, all that he was reaching out to England and wrapping itself around his broken soul. "_Always_ mine," he whispered to America as he found a rhythm, lifted America's hips to angle in as deep as he could, those long legs wrapping around his waist to help pull him further in. He felt his mind beginning to clear from the haze of instinct and imperialism, America's presence lacing through his own to fill out the gaping abyss, the chasms rent by his colonies when they left their Empire. On the edge, with a clarity of self that he had not felt in years, completely surrounded and held up by the bright essence that was _America_, England leaned down to kiss him, the prodigal returned, even as his thrusts sped up erratically, quickening, and he took America in hand to give him what pleasure he could. Hesitantly - but honestly - he let himself fall and opened all that he was to America.

America held on tight as the world turned inside out, pulling England deeper inside himself with every stroke, finally, finally feeling _England_, unobscured and unrestrained, body and soul, and the sensations flooded through him, ocean waves crashing against the white cliffs of Dover, thunderstorms sweeping across the Isle of Wight and raucous concerts echoing through the London summer nights. He dropped every barrier of mind and soul to feel England more completely, and was rewarded with a soft kiss that shimmered with moonlight on the Palace gardens and with England's surrender in turn. With the last wall between them gone, the full weight of England was upon him, thousands of years of history, pain and triumph, and for one suffocating moment he wondered if England had been right at the start, that this was too much for even him to take, the deafening scream of loss and fury that resounded through England's soul clawing across his mind.

He held, though, using every ounce of stubbornness and strength he'd learned from the years of westward exploration and forging a living from unforgiving land to endure the storm until he could begin to comprehend. It might have been centuries, or the space between heartbeats, when the tempest finally eased and he could find the patterns within, see the threads of lands and peoples and time that wove together England and find the gashes rent by the loss of his colonies. Reaching out, he gathered up the bright shreds of life that were England, wrapping heart and self around them, trying to smooth together the jagged, tattered edges that had been tearing the battered nation apart.

_Soft moans and gasps punctuated the shifting of bedsheets and the wet, carnal noises of sex as their bodies conjoined, America arching up to press himself against England, hypersensitive to the soft rasp of body hair, raking his fingers over the other man's scarred back as England moved within him._

It was pain - it was pleasure. England could feel America surrounding him physically, a grounding to the world as he felt America through-in-around his soul, his self, that which was truly _England_, not the body, the paltry human shell of flesh that held the power incarnate that was their kind. It was like America was trying to suture him back together, tying the edges of himself up, and - oh, it _hurt_ - but at the same time it wasn't, because it wasn't stitching, but _healing_, joining. The fool boy was filling in the spaces, closing up the tears, all the while using _himself_ as a replacement for those void spaces. _No, no,_ his mind whispered, _you will die, it will drag you down to Hell with me, do not do this..._ even as his body continued driving them both to climax.

_England reared exultantly above the other's prone form, his arms having fallen to the side to support himself, trusting in America's balance and strength to meet his quick, forceful thrusts, rewarded as America's body surged against his, blinding pain and pleasure and beauty writ into the curve of his neck, the jut of his pelvis, his blown pupils under half-mast eyelids._

Soul twisted with soul, America trying his desperate best to keep England from falling and going down with him - there was no difference now. The strands of himself that he had meant to help England with and then withdraw were tangled - he could not remove them, and England had instinctively reached back and interwoven himself with America.

They could not separate_._

Images and history flashed in the space of a _century_microsecond**lifetime** and suddenly it was _America_ kneeling in the mud at the Siege of Yorktown, the frigid October rain nothing compared to the icy hole torn in his heart - _my colony, my America... why?_ - with (un)ashamed tears dripping down his, _England's_, face. _He_ raged, fighting tooth and claw against the Roman invaders, only to be brutally beaten into submission and then trod into the dirt by a hobnailed sandal. _He_ was the one who found France after the Battle of Trafalgar and crushed his pretty face into the wooden decking of his ship, all sadistic glee and a bloody-toothed grin. _He _suffered, whimpering in agony as the Black Death swept over his lands, killing man, woman, child, _everyone_, indiscriminately - even his own body fell to the hand of Death many times before the end. It was _he _who knelt before his monarchs - Elizabeth, Henry, Victoria, Edward, _Arthur_ - and laid his sword, his flag before their feet, fierce pride suffusing him - _these, mine, my own_.

_He _accepted the hands of all the colonies, their faces hopeful, beaten, uplifted, proud, hateful, joyful, and accepted them into his heart, taking each in their turn and imbuing them with a little bit of himself - a piece of England that would remain with them when they broke away. America knew that even now, he himself carried within him a piece of the old Nation from long, long ago, when the two first met on that sunny day in 1607 and England had taken his tiny bare hand with a smile.

"_I will always be with you, no matter where or when."_

_Now_, America knew, _it's time to return the favor_.

They were brought back to physicality by climax. America could feel the stickiness of his own release on his chest and stomach, the liquid warmth filling him inside undoubtedly England, but he could almost swear he felt an echo of _tight-hot-pressure-pleasure_, and when his eyes cleared, they met with England's, wide and green and clear and _sane_ and he could hear from somewhere words not his own, '_dear Lord, what have I _done..._?_'

America reassured him quickly, not yet ready to let England pull away, even though he knew he could not keep the other Nation. "Hey now, 's okay, you're gonna be fine now. We'll figure things out, 'kay?"

"No, no it is most certainly _not_ 'okay'!" England's voice was choked with horror, guilt. "My God, America, I..." He leaned back, buried his face in his hands, apparently too deep in shock to realize that he hadn't even bothered to separate them; he remained, soft, inside America. His voice grew faster, shaking with disgust. "I... America, what we, what _I_ just did... you did this for necessity, you can't _really_ have wanted, consented to this and..." '_dear heavens what I just did was practically tantamount to _rape_..._'

"No! No, England, no. I did this because I couldn't lose you, I couldn't. It was _my_ choice. _Mine._ Hell, it's not like you made it easy. And not gonna lie, I enjoyed it too. I understand if you don't want this to be permanent or anything, but no guilt, okay?" He kept his legs wrapped tight around England's hips, keeping them together, not yet ready to let go, leaning up on his elbow to reach out and pull one of England's hands away from his face.

England stared down at America, uncomprehending. "I... that's not the _point_, America! You," he shunted his gaze to the side, unable to look at his boy, his friend, his ally, his... goddamn it, _not _'his'!, "you did it to... to keep me sane, keep me alive, and I have no idea how you came to the conclusion that sex would work, but... you can't have _wanted_ this, and I-I fell to my base desires, I let instinct take over. _Fuck_, America, you don't even know what that means for me..." He swallowed convulsively, scrunched his eyes shut.

"The entire time, I was - I was thinking about taking you, possessing you, _owning_ you, in a very imperial sense. I cannot help it; it is what I _am_. You wanting it, _consenting_, didn't even cross my mind! All that mattered was you under me, around me, and I would have _hurt_ you to get my way - to have my way with you." A dry, heaving sob caught in his throat. "You see, now? It was not your original intentions but what I twisted the situation to be. And I... I took more than what you were offering."

America bit his lip as he carefully sat up all the way, a slight wince betraying his sore muscles as England slipped from the confines of his body, eased by the slickness of the lube and his own cum. Ignoring it, America reached over to pull England into his arms, holding him close. He ran his fingers through tawny hair, sliding his hand down to rub gently at the nape of his neck. "_You _took advantage of _me_? I thought I was the one taking advantage here," he said with quiet amusement. In a gentler tone, he continued, "You were hardly in any state to deny me, and I pushed the issue despite your refusal at first. Whether or not you needed this, I had no right to demand it of you. But I've wanted this, wanted you, and when I had a chance I took it. You can't call that being taken advantage of."

"No, no you..." He had nothing; all of his emotion was spent in his outburst, and England slumped into America's arms, feeling drained and weary. _You profess to want me, but how can you? You needed me, never _wanted_, and when you didn't need me anymore, you left. When all is said and done, the suffocating possession that drove you from me the first time would only do so again._

America leaned back, sliding his hand around to cup England's cheek, tilting his chin up to scatter slow, soft kisses across his face. "What drove me away then wasn't your desire to keep or claim me. It was the way you tried to make me stay a child. I couldn't bear that. I was growing up, and you refused to see it. I loved you, even then, but I wanted to be your equal, not your child, and that meant becoming my own nation, even if leaving you hurt. But now, now I _am_ grown up. The world's acknowledged that, and you can't deny it. The only way you could make me leave you is to treat me like a kid again, and I don't mean just being sarcastic like you always are. Don't you see? I've loved you for as long as I can remember, I'm not going to leave you now."

England jolted back, pulling from the circle of America's arms, surprise and shock painted across his features. "I didn't say anything. I didn't _say_ _anything_. At least, out loud." A creeping suspicion coiled in his gut. "America, you..." ..._are you hearing me, now?_

America stared him. "England, what are you talking about? You're, like, five inches away from my ears, of course I can hear you. I'm not deaf, even if you do always complain I don't listen."

England grabbed America's face with both hands, thumbs resting lightly on his cheekbones, and ignored the small surge of feeling that rose from the low hum of awareness that he found seemed to constantly float at the back of his mind, unnoticed but ever-present since their coupling. _America. Look at me. _Listen _to me. I am not speaking aloud._

He focused on England's lips at the words, then looked up to meet green eyes with confusion at the lack of movement. "What- I- How? How am I hearing you? England, what's going on?" _I don't understand, this wasn't supposed to happen, why is this happening, France never said anything about this. This _can't_ happen, I don't know what to do! _

"_France?_" This was growled audibly, and the hands that cupped America's face suddenly tensed, nails pressing sharply into soft skin. "What does that frog have to do with any of this?" _Mineminemineminemine no one else's they cannot have you HE cannot have you I will fly across the Channel and tear out his throat and watch as the beaches run red..._ His hands dropped from America, twitching as he tried to control the sudden possessive rage that coursed through him like a thunderstorm and turned his vision bloody. "I-I apologise. I should not have reacted so."

"Owww, my head. You are _vicious_, you know that? But seriously, you don't have to worry about it," America said, taking England's hands in his own. "France is like really, really not on my list of people to sleep with. Canada would _murder_ me. And you're scary, but Canada practically lives with me, and it's not like I can kick him out. Anyway, France is not the point here. _Please _tell me you have some idea what is going on, you're the one who's always messing around with your so-called magic and stuff."

"Fine, but you're going to tell me what France said, later." England sighed and reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. "I'm... not quite sure what this is or how it could have happened; I work with the black magics, and those of the Fae, and I have come across no spell that would do this. I... I do not think that this is actually magic, per se." He pursed his lips thoughtfully at America's confused expression, watching him carefully. _But I do have a theory..._

"I think it's because of you."

"_Me?_ What did _I _do? I just- what-" he stared blankly at England for a few moments. "What _did_ I do?"

He did not answer. Instead, his eyes drifted shut as he placed one hand on America's chest. Reaching inside of himself, remembering fuzzily what had happened not mere minutes ago, England found where he had begun to shatter and tear, found the bits of himself and America that had danced and twined - healing, twisting, fusing - and followed those threads of the both of them back to the other. There should have been spaces, empty holes in America where he had taken parts of himself to give to the broken Empire, but instead, he was _whole_. Where there should have been nothing, there was _England_, woven like a tapestry into America himself, much as America's self was with England.

"That." England's voice was a whisper. "_That_ is what you did."

America looked confused for a moment before laying his hand over England's. Clarified by Britain's Sight, he could feel now where they had mingled together, where souls and power and sheer force of _being _had woven together as seamlessly as if they had been created like this. Aware now, he realized that the constant nagging sensation of something forgotten and just remembered was the pieces of England, memories, thoughts, all the little bits now resting inside him. _I did this? I never meant to, I'm sorry - I didn't want to force this on you, really. I don't regret it, not if it means you'll live, but I never wanted to tie you down. I know you hate having to ask anyone for help or having to rely on someone, and now you have to. Do you... hate me for it?_

"...hate? America... you..." He took his former colony firmly by the shoulders and shook him. Hard. "America, you _idiot!_ I love you. I have _always_ loved you! Maybe not in all the same ways, for to me you have been as a brother, as a son, as a friend, as..." England bit his lip, took a deep breath and confessed. "For a time now, I have wished to hold you, to love you as a lover, but never thought that you would reciprocate. I thought that..." _That you would reject me outright, as the Empire you broke from and never wished to return to. That you would laugh at this too-old Nation of waning power with its vainglorious delusions. That you, America the Beautiful, would have another that you loved._

He wrapped his arms around England and swept him up in a gentle kiss, suckling softly on his lower lip. _No, no, there is only you, there has only ever been you. Others may have shared my bed, but it is you that I have loved for as long as I can remember, you that I have wanted, longed for. I thought you wouldn't want me back, not after I had left you in the rain, not after I turned on you, abandoned you._ He tightened his embrace, knowing that his leaving, while not a raw wound anymore, was still a sore spot for his old ruler. Deepening the kiss, he tried to let reassurance flow between them, through skin-to-skin, _land-to-land_, contact and the odd, constant sharing flow of self between them that he had inadvertently caused. _I've wanted so badly to be with you, beside you, as more than just an ally or friend. So often I've wanted to kiss you, touch you, comfort you, to be allowed, desired, always certain you would deny me, call me a child and turn me away._

America matched the thought with slow touches to the island Nation's back and sides, tracing scars he now knew the stories of, opening his mouth to taste the United Kingdom, the gentle touch of lips so much _more_ than it was before. The kiss was as rich and full as it once had been cold and empty, layered with sensations - robins singing and the taste of summer strawberries, the thrill of a stag hunt and the ever-present underlying thrum of the Gulf Stream. _I never dreamed you would want a Nation as young and inexperienced as me. I thought you would always see me as the colony you raised, selfish and childish and not someone you could rely on, an equal._

England broke the kiss, tongue swiping over America's lips as they parted to keep the lingering taste in his mouth - winds howling through Sun Canyon, a rain shower in the Smokies, and maybe, just maybe, a hint of tea fouled by saltwater. He curled his fingers in America's hair and laid his head on his broad shoulder, nestling his face in the side of America's neck. "You have proven, not just to me, but to everyone that you are more than the equal of any Nation still on this Earth. Even so, I will still remember you as a young lad, wondering and curious, always coming to me for answers about the world. That will not change, for I will never be able to forget it, and it is ever a part of who you are. In many ways you retain the hope, innocence, and the spirit that you had all that time ago. But it does not deter me from seeing you as the grand Nation you have become - a superpower at the end of this era of empires."

America rested his cheek against England's unruly mop of hair, the words that he wanted to say catching in his throat. "Thank you. Thank you for not just being in love with a superpower. Sometimes I think that's all the other Nations see nowadays. I like to pretend, but I know these things don't last forever, and knowing that you'll still love me then..." He closed his eyes and breathed in. _English gardens_. _High tea. Blood-soaked castle flagstones._ "I-I don't want to be like Rome. I don't want to fall and crash and burn so hard that I'll never be able to get back up again."

Britain's hand rose to caress the American's face; he raised his head to press their cheeks together, his breath warming the shell of America's ear. "Do not think of such things now. You are young, and let us hope your fall will be far in the future." _And I will be there to catch you, whenever that time comes._ He exhaled, worn and tired by the evening's events, and slid out of America's embrace to flop gracelessly to the rumpled sheets. Looking up, he held out a hand, wordlessly inviting the other into his arms.

England's welcome was irresistible, pulling America down to him as surely as gravity. The awkwardness of arranging arms and legs kept them distracted for a few moments before settling into comfort, hands absently petting wherever they had landed, motions slowing to the occasional caress as night wrapped its peace around them. In the silence, England's heartbeat was a steady rhythm of waves as the Thames flowed to the sea, lulling him to sleep.

.o.O.o.

America woke to warm sunlight falling across his face and the unfamiliar comfort of another Nation tangled in his arms, a thigh pressing pleasantly between his legs. He opened his eyes to wooded hills that wavered and resolved into moss-green irises watching him solemnly, the morning sun's light gilding England's face as well. Raising a hand, he gently brushed his the backs of his fingers across sharp cheekbones and strong eyebrows, tracing familiar, beloved features for the first time.

England fluttered his eyes closed as America's exploring touch stroked his substantial eyebrows and grazed his eyelids, touches ghosting over his temple, jaw, nose, mouth. He reached up blindly and caught America's wrist, pulling it down to his lips. Opening his eyes to look at America, lying there nude and golden in the early sun, he kissed the back of his hand, each knuckle individually. When finished, he took the hand and laid it on his cheek, absorbed in the weight and warmth and simple intimacy of the touch. A smile, almost insubstantial, flitted over his face as he watched America's expression. A light breath, almost a whisper, but no voice behind it:

_You have no idea what this is to me; how I have longed to just hold you in my arms and call you 'beloved'._

America's eyes widened in loving wonder. _I-it's real; it really happened! I was afraid to wake up in case I was dreaming. I mean, the talking with our minds things is totally a dream-thing, not a real life-thing. Though you have to admit, it is SO cool. Also the you wanting me back seems like a dream-thing. _He ducked his head, hiding his face in the crook of England's neck for a moment before kissing a trail up the column of his neck and over his jaw to his lips - slow, undemanding touches for the simple joy of kissing. Stroking a hand down across the pale skin of England's muscular thigh, he found a circular scar too precise for a bullet wound. Running a fingertip around it, he found a pattern that echoed strangely - _Stonehenge, the quiet of the open plain dappled with sun and shade beneath soft white clouds and a sky of blue _- and was awed again that England - ancient, strong, beautiful England - was his. He pushed himself up on his hands, leaning over England to press down into the kiss as the other man's hands tangled in his hair, his larger frame covering England's as he moved to hover over the island, slipping a knee between his thighs, hands splayed on either side of his chest.

Gentle, easy kisses were just beginning to grow more heated when a sudden growl interrupted them and America pulled back, blushing. England made an impatient sound and pulled him back down for another kiss, but after a long, sweet moment the noise came again, and America leaned back. "I think that's my stomach reminding me that we kind of never really ate dinner last night. I don't suppose you have any decent breakfast food around here?"

England blinked and scowled. "Just like you and your bottomless pit to ruin a perfectly good moment." He huffed angrily and shoved America off, who landed on top of the covers with a mock-wounded '_oof_'. Rolling over to the side of the bed, he swung his legs over and fumbled on the ground for his trousers. _Clean enough, I suppose_. He didn't bother with any underthings for the moment, secure enough in his own home. He _did_ turn and give a withering glare to America when the teen, watching him dress, decided to interject, "'course, I could totally have _this_ for breakfast," with an accompanying grope of his arse. Smacking the offending hand away, he pulled his trousers all the way up, muttering as he stalked off to the kitchen about a certain Frenchman's influence on young, impressionable colonies.

America made his own cursory search for clothes, settling for just his boxers after remembering that his shirt hadn't made it that far. Wandering towards the kitchen behind England, the realization that he'd just asked England for food had him hurrying after the other man to head off potential disaster. Fortunately, when he arrived in the kitchen, England seemed to be cursing the emptiness of his refrigerator. At least, the lack of food in his fridge - America could see plenty of alcohol, but not much else besides old to-go boxes and takeout containers. The sight of England's bare back - and the knowledge that he wasn't wearing anything under those rumpled slacks - was far more appetizing. Somehow he managed to resist the urge to just walk over and lick him. "You know, some cereal would do just fine, as long as you've got some milk that's still good."

England commented over his shoulder, "Of _course_ I have milk, you dolt. It's for the tea." He grabbed the carton anyway. Moving over to the cabinet, he rifled through its contents, coming away with a box of some kind of bran cereal, a half-eaten loaf of bread, and a box of tea. He put the bran and tea down on the countertop next to the milk and went back to the fridge, snagging a jar of marmalade before dropping some bread in the toaster. He waved America over to the cereal while he started the electric kettle. "Well? Bowls are on the left shelf, in the middle."

America's face was the very picture of despair. "All-Bran? England, _seriously_? What about, y'know, _real_ cereal? Stuff like Fruit Loops, or Cocoa Puffs, or-or Lucky Charms! Captain Crunch!"

England stared at him, uncomprehending. "What are you going on about? All-Bran is a perfectly fine cereal. Besides, it's good for you."

Blue eyes rolled exasperatedly. "You told me charcoal on food was good for me when I was little. And besides, I don't want cereal that's _healthy_, I want cereal that tastes good and looks cool."

"_Fine _then. Will toast and marmalade do for your morning sugar fix?"

"Only if there's no charcoal involved."

The toaster apparently had impeccable timing, as just then popped out the two slices of bread, slightly blackened on both sides, but not inedibly so. England rolled his eyes in return and went to grab plates, lightly tossing one over to America and taking one for himself. "You can have the first pieces." _Just remember to put some in for me_, followed silently in its wake.

America snagged the toast deftly, flipping it on to his plate quick enough not to burn his fingers and setting the plate down beside the marmalade. He popped two more slices of bread in the toaster before globbing the marmalade onto his own. Toast in hand, he slid up behind England, wrapping his free arm around him to watch the little ritual that England had made of fixing a cup of tea, enjoying the hazy feeling of reliable chimes echoing across rooftops and a foggy river.

England stoically ignored the arm that settled warm and comfortable on his back and hip, instead focusing on the tea as he poured the hot water in over the tea ball, watching little air bubbles escape to the surface as the leaves began to steep. Only then did he turn to America, who was crunching away at his marmalade-smeared toast. Azurite tones blinked at malachite. "Ah fink yurr toasht ish done..." America motioned over to the toaster, where the slightly-less-scorched bread sat poking up from the slots. Rolling his eyes and pulling free of America's grasp, England left the tea steeping and went to spread marmalade over his own toast.

"Good lord, America, did you eat half the jar?" He waved off the mumbled response, managing to scrape a sufficient amount of marmalade out of the bottom, and made a mental note to keep an extra jar - or maybe two - on hand in the future. The distinct, sincere sense of _apologetic/guilty/sheepish_ that he somehow knew was _America_ caught him off guard, and he knew that this... _bond_... of theirs would take some getting used to. Even with it... Britain winced, guilt welling up as he watched America wolf down the last bites of his toast, seeing not the sloppy manners but instead the unconsciously careful way he shifted his weight, the darkened skin visible above the waistband of his boxers, the hideous bite on his shoulder that gleamed a sickly black, dried blood crusting along the imprint of his... _mine, mine, oh God, _I _did this_... his teeth. Despite himself, the sight of America licking crumbs and jam off of his fingers triggered a sudden surge of lust that twisted sickeningly in his stomach, curdled by guilt.

Caught in his thoughts, he didn't notice the look of frustration that passed across America's face, or the echo of that emotion that whispered through the back of his mind. Instead all he saw was America suddenly reaching for him before he felt fingers minutely tilting his chin up and the tip of a tongue delicately picking away the crumbs that lingered around his own mouth. His own toast fell forgotten to the counter as America grasped his other hand and brought it up to brush across the bite mark, tipping his head to the side as though offering it up. He felt a shiver of pleasure run through America, body and mind together reveling in the touch. _A shame we don't have a meeting this week, I'd like to walk in and see the looks on everyone's faces. Although France would be absolutely insufferable._

England pulled his face back, running his thumb delicately over the swollen, discoloured mark. "You may not mind it, and there is the matter of this, this connection that we share now, but..." he sighed, dropping his hand down, eyes canting off to the side. "It does not change the fact that I hurt you. I was brutal and I was violent and _I don't know if I can keep from doing it again._"

America cupped his hands around his newfound lover's face, bringing it up so he could see the clarity evident in the other's gaze despite the attempts to evade him. "England. England, I can feel what you're feeling. I can feel how much you care, how much you love me, and it's absolutely amazing, something I never imagined possible. I'm not going to let you walk away from me, from _us_, because you're scared of yourself. Yeah, you left me a bit sore, I'll admit, but if that's you at your worst? I can take that. Frankly, I loved it, and I'd be rather disappointed if all I ever had with you was plain vanilla sex. I'm not some trembling virgin or delicate flower to be traumatized by a bit of rough play. And I know you, Great Britain, I _know_ you now. Every time won't be like that. I can feel it in the way you look at me, the way you touch me. If things had gone farther this morning when we woke up, do you honestly think it would have been violent?"

"I, maybe - no, no, it would not have been." England brought his hand back up, laying it against America's cheek. "I care, I truly do, and I cannot even tell you 'You do not know how much' because you would know it for a lie - you _do _know, and I cannot hide such a thing from you. But now you can also feel the _other_ things that I try to hide." The hand on his cheek drifted down to his neck, fingers caressing before curling into a hard grip, thumb pressing dangerously on his trachea as his gaze refused to waver or flinch. England's eyes narrowed and his breath hissed through his teeth, his demeanor shifted into something more primeval.

"You know now the me cultivated over thousands of years, how I have bled and fought and raged and conquered. Lust, pride, wrath, avarice. Savage, slave, warrior, empire... nation." His eyes softened once more and the pressure on America's neck lessened, hand slipping down to rest upon his bare chest. "You see all this, and still you stay, despite what I did to you, now and before." His eyes drifted closed, leaning forward to lay his cheek against America's, a touch soft and infinitely gentle. "Love's wonders never cease."

.o.O.o.

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